Bees are born fully grown.

Pale Skin on an Empty Canvas

So I reconcile with my denial
Such a waste of a pretty face
I dance in hues down empty church pews
I speak thy name in vain

The color crimson where the blade has bitten
I still stand with my heart in my right hand
A slight beating where sweet nothings are sleeping
My love is true, but it always turns blue
Did I lose my way & gone astray?

I was taught to be independent, not dependent
I had to show I was strong, but maybe I was wrong
Myself to lead is quite the mystery
I’ve gone cold, old to new, or new to old?

Only memories, silent subtlety
People don’t know that I cry myself to sleep but I will never show
I show peace, but inside I’m breaking down piece by piece
I’m young but everything is numb
Where do I go? My hearts not at home